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Apocalypse
from Gebo, 2021 Drawn curtains fasten their threads together never to open again the pattern does not complete if not aligned each chink or fold leaning into the other Sun’s eyes flutter to brighten the roads better than a lick of paint better than licking a battery these jolts will restart the traffic if only they can navigate the pot holes and speed bumps via alternate routes This must be what summer feels like And great star, named and unnamed capturing gaze yet the cornea do not burn like they told every froglet instilled in the pond distilled in the factories live it — eat it — pray it — believe it (you better not believe it) this scorching sun sitting in the sky’s thoughts staring down, near enough to give life to a clump of rock this sun, inventing time by parking its arse-cheeks on the ground split pantyhose generate a shadow around revealed flesh Seasons of comfort are in session Goldilocks declares on the street corners of The Republic of Poetry — how it is just right The shy trees are no more — they yell jokes from a cannibalistic book made of their skin each punchline lands an honest mark on the face Somewhere, a statue of a lion whimpers with its thorn-laced paw soothed by the tender talons of a bird of prey — pluck the stick fuck the splinters pluck the crone from the maiden’s head as winds tighten, and tease your throat Twin bridges slumped on the River Tamar filled with silent excuses to bolt their cables into a patch of concrete suspend disbelief that the inanimate can pass for being human tread with caution for a high volume of gendered vehicles pass this way hands from the river claw onto the bank with Mother Tenacity’s affirming grip the body of Babylon scooped up in a length of ribbon dried in a bath towel kissed on the forehead and sung to sleep ‘my bonny lies over a notion…’ where fresh bed sheets touch static against spines a taste of seasonal freedom cruel as the taste of Midsummer Day’s goodnight sleep tight, for now until the turning Distant suns replace the glow of proximity blinking messages through the blackness into Morpheus’s shorthand typed into dark wanderings which countdown to a wake that breaks the mourning seductive dreams coloured in crayon until heat melts the wax sends a hard vibration through mortal pages punctuated by prophecy — the end of all days sat apart blurry are the smiles this is the mask that hides the face of the spectre of things to be sung O GREAT REVELATION! John the Apostle John the Beatle Yer Blues blasts loud into the ear a meeting is scheduled in the living rooms of each depredated domicile dissemination will dictate the insemination of The Saviour or the dragon that fell from a city in the clouds and then silence And then more silence The voiceless assemble in under an hour — rapid response this is it folks the moment THE END OF ALL DAYS HAS COME! Bled realities flatline — leylines narrow every channel dried-up and void The freaks shall inherit the Sun Demand it ends its exercise routine no-more will it rise to offer high-fives to drifting angelic forms no-more will it be eaten by the groves in their grooves as they spin The Sun pricks its finger and sleeps one thousand years cries a thousand more tears which evaporate every millisecond on the burning surface of corruption Floods eventually consume soils a sphere sits on the shoulder of a giant as it trudges through fresh formed swamps the pebble stones of the pavement beat with a time-signature of 4/4 with lots of ghost notes scattered Hovering on the edge of their seats the gods look down chortle and choke it is hard to swallow what remains is a wasteland And the only hope of ascension lies in the footnotes of an unwritten poem a poem worth dying for.
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